


wishful drinking

by lightyaers



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Addiction, Angst, Drug Addiction, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Mention of Harry Beltik, Mention of Jolene, Mention of Vasily Borgov, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27760150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightyaers/pseuds/lightyaers
Summary: The five times Beth called Benny to stop herself from doing something stupid.And the one time she didn't...This fic is available in Russian! https://ficbook.net/readfic/10144360
Relationships: Beth Harmon/Benny Watts
Comments: 22
Kudos: 303





	wishful drinking

**Author's Note:**

> Yo yo yoooo. I've been sitting on this idea for a while and I finally got round to writing this one shot! I'm excited to finally write something about Beth and Benny, I love them dearly. 
> 
> Enjoy x

The first time Beth had dared to call him again was after Russia. She’d found herself at home, alone—a World Champion—and all she’d wanted to do was _drink._ She saw the green and cream hues of the pills wherever she looked; in the grass and trees that littered Lexington; in Alma’s old vinyl album covers; in the smoke of cigarettes that she’d taken to chain-smoking to distract herself.

Benny picked up on the fifth ring.

“Yeah?” He said, without any sense of softness within his words.

“Is this a bad time?” Beth asked, amused at his way of answering unknown calls. She hadn’t spoken to him since that morning in Russia; the morning before she’d beaten Borgov. That was over a month ago.

“No,” Benny muttered, gentler this time. Beth could tell he was surprised. It was as if he’d just witnessed Borgov opening a game with anything _other_ than the Sicilian Defence, his signature play. “I thought you’d dropped off the face of the Earth, is all.”

“I’m not buried six-feet under just yet, Watts.”

“What a surprise,” Benny let out, his words laced with something just as venomous as the King’s Gambit. “I told you not to call me, remember?”

“I do,” Beth replied, as a pit of guilt opened up in her stomach. “That was before you, Harry and the others helped me win,”

“That was before you didn’t call me for a month _after_ winning.” Benny replied immediately. It mimicked the way he played speed chess—with his fast responses and aggressive play. She knew he was peeved, but that didn’t stop a small smile curling onto her lips at the sound of his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Beth began slowly, going for her signature play of the Queen’s Gambit. She’d control the middle of the board by sacrificing one of her starting pawns—in this case, she’d be forgiven by Benny if she chewed down her pride and apologised. “I wanted to be alone for a while.”

“You, yourself and a drink, I assume,” Benny said harshly, but she knew he _cared,_ even if he didn’t show it straight away after so long.

“I’ve been sober since before Russia.” Beth corrected. She coiled the phone cord round and round her pointer finger, fiddling away her nervous energy. “I’ve been writing.” She bit her lip anxiously.

“Writing?” Benny repeated. “Like, a book?”

“I don’t know about that,” She said truthfully. “It just helps. When it doesn’t help, I suppose I’ll just have to call you.”

Benny let out a single chuckle. “Will you now?”

She let silence flutter over the line for a few seconds, listening to the sound of his breaths. They were shallow and controlled, but she could imagine his face so vividly—eyes staring at the floor, fingers clasped around the phone so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, hair covering his eyeline.

He was probably wearing a t-shirt and grey denim jeans, with the obvious inclusion of that knife glued to his hip. Bare foot, if he was in his apartment. Moustache trimmed in the usual way he always had it.

“I’m sorry, Benny,” Beth repeated, putting as much genuine feeling she had into her words. She wished she had the ability to generate autocues on the ceiling, as well as chess games. Sometimes the hardest things to say were apologies, and Beth _hated_ apologising. “I’m figuring it out, day by day, starting with the people I’ve hurt.”

She heard him shuffle on the other end of the phone, probably changing positions to prop his elbows on his knees as he leant forward; if Benny Watts had a signature move in his daily life, it would be that pose.

He sighed for a few seconds before he spoke. “I swear, Beth. If you ever wait this long again to call me, or see me, or _whatever—,_ ”

“I promise I won’t,” She interrupted. “Scouts honour.”

“You were definitely not a Scout,” Benny said, but his tone was much lighter.

“You _definitely_ were, though. You understand how much a promise like this means.”

A comfortable silence descended over the phone, as Beth listened to the white noise drifting in from Benny’s New York City basement. Despite how Paris had turned out, she thought fondly of the five weeks before it in his tiny living room, sleeping on the blow-up mattress and playing chess all day; wondering when he’d finally give up his mentor act and notice the tension that stuck to every surface of his apartment when they were together.

Beth was transported back to Russia then, as Townes had woken her that morning with a cup of tea and news of an incoming phone call.

She recalled the way her heart had tried to crawl its way up her windpipe at the sound of Benny’s voice, even more so when she’d found out they were all together; Beltik, Wexler and his other chess playing colleagues. A room full of love and zero sleep had poured out from over the phone and into her hands.

“I couldn’t have beaten Borgov without you,” She admitted. “I’m a World Champion because of you.”

“No,” Benny said immediately. “You’re a World Champion because you’re Beth Harmon.”

Beth didn’t tread down the rising lump in her throat and the tears welling in her large eyes. She embraced it, and she wished she could have embraced Benny Watts then.

She’d missed him.

She’d missed him the way a Queen misses her King after checkmate.

***

In the coming weeks Benny and Beth spoke often, even if she wasn’t dying for a drink. She hadn’t realised how much of a void his absence had created until she was speaking to him once more. It was something she _wanted_ to get used to, again, and something she definitely _could_ get used to. The sound of his voice, both egotistical and genius, filled her ears pleasantly with every call they had.

One evening, as Beth’s ceiling showed her a replay of the Borgov game all over again, a craving bombarded her the way Benny had bombarded her while playing speed chess in Ohio—

She didn’t just _want_ the pills, she _needed_ them. The pharmacy would be shut, and Jolene had already drained her home of Alma’s old tranquilizers, but Beth had a line of sweat above her lip, which only meant one thing.

Something bad was about to happen, whether it came in the form of a bottle or a dissolvable plastic cased pill. Beth was good at convincing herself it wasn’t a bad thing—one measly pill, one tiny drink—but from experience, one always turned into three, then five, then nine, until she had enough of both substances to place on every square of the sixty-four tiled board she knew like the back of her hand.

It was late, but Beth was running out of options. Benny had told her to call when she needed him; she classed this as one of those times.

He picked up on the fourth ring.

“Beth?”

“Just—say _something_. Anything. Chat away.” She let out, curling into a ball on the ground by the phone. She began to rock herself, back and forth, praying that the craving would go away, but she knew herself—it would be at least an hour before she could shove the feeling to the back of her head.

Benny immediately started talking her ear off. “The Reti Opening is a pile of bullshit... He cried like a baby afterwards, but I didn’t particularly care... It’s like I imagine the game inside my head sometimes—,”

“In your head?” Beth finally interjected, after thirty minutes of listening to him ramble. How he’d managed thirty minutes of one-sided conversation, Beth didn’t know, but then again; this was Benny Watts; he was perfectly happy chatting about his opinions for way longer than he’d already done.

“A little— I can see the pieces and the squares,” Benny said, almost forgetting why Beth had even called. “Has it subsided?” Beth shuffled on the floor, wincing as she noticed her butt had gone numb.

“Not quite,” She replied. “But I’m getting there,” Benny was silent. Beth could tell he was frowning. “I see games on my ceiling.”

“You— _what?_ ” Benny choked out. It was like she’d just promoted a Rook back on the board over her Queen.

“Since I was taken to the orphanage, I’ve seen a chessboard on the ceiling. The pieces move and I can work out every angle in a matter of seconds. It worked when I took the pills, but in Russia against Borgov, I managed it sober, for the first time.”

Benny bit his cheek on the other end of the line. “I wondered how you’d done it, after moving his Knight to a position you weren’t prepared for.”

Beth let out a gentle huff. “I just remember looking at the ceiling and _willing_ the board to show up. And it did.” She thought back to her win against Vasily Borgov. The way he’d placed his fallen King in her palm and squeezed her knuckles affectionately had overwhelmed her with a warm feeling.

She still had his chess piece, a beautiful, Russian, hand-crafted King, with a gold trim on the crown. She’d been thinking about gifting it to someone—

To _Benny_.

Beth breathed out slowly as she managed to keep her cravings at bay. As much as she wanted to down a crate of beer or swallow four pills, she knew it wasn’t worth it. Her logistical mind had emerged from the fog, finally, shrouding her impulses and giving her clarity.

“I’m okay, now.” Beth said, smally. All of a sudden, embarrassment wound its way up the back of her neck and to her ears. She _hated_ being vulnerable, as much as she’d hated losing to Benny in Las Vegas in 1966. She forced herself to speak. “It’s passed.”

“It’ll get easier, Beth.” Benny said, switching up the usual narcissistic tone he always spoke in, for something much less about himself. “You progressed with chess enough to beat me at speed chess over and over again—you can progress to eradicate these urges, too.”

Beth smiled at his analogy; it was about _him._ She didn’t expect anything less, but even so, she understood his point.

When Beth slipped back into bed, it wasn’t the Borgov game she saw—it was the first game she’d played against Benny. She knew, now, where she’d gone wrong. She couldn’t wait until the next time she played against him.

***

He picked up on the third ring.

Beth had a colossal lump in her throat, the size of a cork from a wine bottle that she wished she could raise to her mouth and chug to oblivion.

“Is it bad?” Benny asked calmly, but she knew he already knew the answer.

“It’s been four years,” Beth replied slowly, inhaling and exhaling through her nose as her body began to shake. “I wish I could toast something in her honour.”

Four years since Mexico City—four years since Alma fell asleep in her bed and never woke up again.

“If she were here, she’d be proud of you for not toasting anything,” Benny said, but Beth let out a pained chuckle.

“You didn’t know her. She loved a Molotov, with onions instead of olives,”

“Onions?” Benny grimaced.

“I know,” Beth breathed out, as her mind pelted a thousand different liquors at the sides of her skull.

“You know you can come here whenever you feel like it, Beth,” Benny said, and she was reminded of after Paris—

_‘You’re saying you’d rather get drunk than come and see me.’_

“I don’t want to put all of this on you, Benny. It’s _wildly_ unprofessional,” She chuckled out the final sentence, playfully trying to lessen the extent of her addiction. Benny didn’t buy it.

“Everything we’ve _done_ together is wildly unprofessional, Beth. I don’t even think we can _be_ professional when we’re around each other. Maybe that’s not a bad thing,”

“Maybe it is,” Beth replied quickly.

Benny shuffled on the phone, moving to his signature pose. “You’re bored, Beth. You’re in that big house all alone, every single fucking day. Playing chess against yourself has surely lost its value by now,”

“I don’t know about that,” Beth let out. “I’m a very skilled opponent.”

Benny paused on the line, as Beth’s fingers began to shake. She felt sick; she felt like, if she didn’t down at least a shot of _something,_ she’d die right there; on the carpeted floor surrounded by flowered wallpaper.

“Get a glass of water,” Benny demanded. Beth was in no headspace to refuse him. She wobbled to the kitchen, phone clutched between her shoulder and neck as she filled up a glass with water from the faucet. “Do you have it?”

“I have it,” She breathed out, as sweat began to trickle upon her forehead.

“Raise it,” Benny said. Beth did as she was told, and she wondered if he was doing the same in his basement. Raising a glass to the sky for a woman he’d never met before, for a woman he only knew the importance of through Beth’s recollections and memories. “To your Mom,” Benny said smoothly.

Beth stood in her kitchen, glass raised, eyes welling, until she downed the water in two gulps. She didn’t feel the warm buzz that a scotch would give you, or the metallic, ethanolic taste of vodka, but she did feel one thing—

She felt she’d paid her mother respects, on the fourth eve of her death.

And that was something she’d wanted to do _more_ than drown her sorrows.

“Come and see me, Beth,” Benny whispered down the phone. “ _Please._ ” He urged. Beth hung her head as she leaned by the sink.

“I want to,” She said, truthfully. She wanted to see Benny Watts more than she’d wanted to win against Beltik when she was fifteen years old; more than she wanted to feel the hum of booze and pills in her system again. “I don’t want you to see me like this,”

“I’ve seen you in _far more_ compromising positions than when you get an urge, Beth.”

Beth snorted at his reply. She could imagine his raised eyebrow, his lips curled in a mischievous smile, his hair draped over his eyes sexily. He’d broken his promise of no sex in those five weeks before Paris, but truthfully—

Beth had been happy it about.

“Soon,” Beth let out. “I need to do this on my own, first.”

“You can do anything you put your mind to,” Benny replied. “You just need to _want_ it.”

***

Anxiety crawled its way up Beth’s throat as she looked at the two pills in front of her. Laundry had been more of a difficult experience than she’d first expected, when two pills had rolled their way out of the pocket of a pair of flared trousers.

She stared at the pills as her heartrate began to accelerate tenfold. Her ears hummed as she imagined them coiling down her throat and coursing through her bloodstream—that buzz, the absence of feeling, other than the rush of the world spinning around her and the hyper-fixation of a chessboard on the ceiling—

She wanted it.

Benny picked up on the second ring.

“I found two of them,” Beth said, swallowing down bile as it tried to crawl up her throat.

“Flush them,” Benny said, almost immediately.

“I don’t know if I can,” Beth said, as her breathing became strenuous. Her lungs rejected the air she tried desperately to inhale; all they wanted were the pills that lay inches from her face.

“Tell yourself you can, Beth,” Benny urged. His voice wasn’t cool and collected this time; it was laced with something rushed and urgent.

He was scared; scared for her. After all she’d achieved, keeping up her sobriety for more than three months now, he didn’t want her to lose it all because of this.

“ _I_ know you can,” He added, grasping at words to find the right sentence combination that would make her snap back to herself.

“I want to _feel_ it again, Benny— you don’t know how it felt,” Beth stuttered out. With every second that passed, she was reminded of how _good_ it felt. It was only increasingly clouding her judgement.

“Then tell me,” Benny spoke. “Walk away from them and tell me how it felt.”

Beth let out a shaky breath, forcing herself to turn her back on the two green and cream capsules on the counter. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply a few times, before she mustered up the will to speak.

“It’s like I know everything, even seconds after I take one. My body floats up toward the clouds, but my mind stays present in the room. I notice _everything_ —everyone. Every move is recorded as soon as it’s played. I know how to reciprocate an even better move in return; I know how to _win_.”

“You did that in Russia without them,” Benny stated. “You won without their help.”

“That was different,” Beth said, as the urge to look back at the pills overwhelmed her. “I had all of you behind me, willing me forward.”

“You _still_ have that, Beth. I’m here,” Benny swallowed as concern descended on him like a falling grand piano. “You also have _yourself_ behind you; you’ve come this far already. All you have to do is flush them.”

Benny’s soft words filled Beth’s ears pleasantly, despite how much she wanted to shrug them off, hang up and immediately swallow both pills. He was right—he was _always_ right. On any other occasion, she’d roll her eyes at the fact he always knew what to say, but right then, she’d _needed_ it.

She’d needed him, and he’d come to her rescue for the umpteenth time.

Beth knew Benny. She knew he wouldn’t stick around unless he got the sense she was truly trying. It was understandable; fighting someone’s losing battle for them was exhausting and debilitating. She realised, then, why Benny was sticking around _now_ —

Because he _knew_ she was trying. Desperately, positively _trying_ to overcome her addiction. To move on from it. He knew how hard she was working, not just on herself, but on fixing whatever she’d broken with him before.

“Will you stay on the phone with me?” Beth asked. Her voice was quiet, small, but more controlled.

“I’m right here, Harmon.” Benny confirmed.

She forced herself to turn back to the pills, laying on the kitchen counter next to the sink. As she looked at them, their colours had faded. The green wasn’t as vibrant, wasn’t as inviting; the cream colour looked curdled and muddied. Beth grabbed them, feeling them as they rolled around in her palm. They were so small, so insignificant compared to what she’d already accomplished.

Unceremoniously, Beth dropped the pills in the sink. They clattered on the metal, before both of them found their way to the plughole, disappearing without a trace as they dropped down the darkened pit. Beth flicked on the faucet aggressively, washing away any semblance of them ever being in her home, her bloodstream, her mind.

She exhaled away her anxiety, her cravings, feeling lighter than she’d ever felt after popping any pill.

“They’re gone.” Beth breathed out. She could sense Benny’s beaming smile on the other end of the line, the same one he’d shown after beating her, game after game after game, in the Student Union in Ohio.

“You did it,” Benny congratulated her, but Beth’s fingers were still shaking.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this for, Benny. Every day I wake up and the cravings get stronger.”

“You do it for as long as it takes. Soon, you’ll wake up in the morning and forget how much you used to want the booze, or the pills, or the loss of control.”

Beth let the comfortable silence fill her up. She allowed Benny’s words to travel through her body, her soul, her mind, intent on not having his energy wasted for all of his efforts with her. She wanted to tell Benny how much he meant to her—how calling him was the only time she didn’t feel alone in this world, how having him near her was helping to heal her with every passing minute.

She just didn’t know how to say it without spilling everything else she felt.

***

Beth stood before the phone, heart in her throat. She knew this was going to be the last time she called for his help—it _had_ to be. She’d spread him too thin, she’d relied on him too much.

Benny picked on the first ring.

It only made her feel more ashamed, imagining him waiting by the phone for whenever she’d call. Overtaking his life to be there for her while she was miles away.

“Good morning,” Benny said happily. It only pained Beth more, hearing how prepared he was for another breakdown, another lapse of judgement, another moment of vulnerability that was entirely self-inflicted by her delusions.

“This is the last time,” Beth let out. “I’m setting you free.”

“Setting me _free?_ ” Benny chuckled. “You sound like Hemmingway. I hope you haven’t resorted to reading poetry from boredom.”

“You do too much for me,” Beth stated, as tears welled behind her eyes.

Benny’s demeaner changed, as he deposited himself in his signature pose. “No, I don’t, Beth.”

“Yes, you do,” The words trickled from their mouth. “It’s not fair.”

“We speak a few times a week, Beth. That is _not_ too much. It’s a given,”

Beth clamped her eyes shut, trying to stop herself from overflowing. The guilt had been rising from within over the past week, eating her alive before she went to sleep, every time she punched in his number, and every time the line went dead after he’d stalled her from a relapse yet again.

If Beth was a chess piece, she’d be a pawn. Benny would be a Queen, protecting his kingdom with baited breath, as he waited by the phone for her calls. She felt like she was eating up his life—taking away his freedom, his opportunities, his connections to the outside world.

“What makes it a given?” Beth asked.

“I care about you,” Benny replied immediately. “I _want_ you to get better, the same way I know _you_ want to get better. No one needs to go through what you’re going through alone.”

“No one needs to dedicate their time to me when it’s my own problem to fix.” Beth retorted. It came out harsher than she’d wanted it to.

“What’s got into you?” Benny said quietly. “You know I’m here, Beth. That’s not going to change,”

“Go back to tournaments, Benny,” She said, as tears began to drip from her eyes. “Go back to sauntering into a room and winning a game in less than twelve moves. Write another book. Stop waiting by the phone for me to call.”

“I don’t think of you as a burden, Harmon.” Benny’s tone changed, going back to the way he’d spoken to her in those five weeks before Paris.

Beth only ignored his words, intent on having this be the final time she relied on him. She didn’t merely want to overcome her addiction, just to move onto another one; in the form of _having_ to call Benny to feel any sense of relief.

_God forbid_ —she got a real therapist. Took up a new hobby, like walking, or hiking, or cycling, instead of dialling his basement whenever she felt lonely.

Enough was enough.

“Well, I do.” Beth whispered.

She hung up the phone before Benny could protest, ignoring it as a call came through immediately afterwards. She knew it was him—and she couldn’t do this anymore. With every call, with every time he’d swooped her away from doing something regrettable, she could feel herself depending on him more and more.

Cold turkey—that was the only way they’d be able to do this.

Beth slumped into a chair at the dining table, placing her head in her hands as another call rang from the phone. She shook her leg up and down, trying to stop herself from reaching out and picking it up, from spilling her guts onto the rug over him.

She’d expected too much from him when she was giving him nothing in return; chess was a two-player game, but Benny had been carrying this match on his back alone since that first call after Russia—

“No more.” Beth whispered to herself. “I’m sorry, Benny.”

***

Beth knocked on the door to his basement five times before he opened it.

Benny’s eyes hit hers with a ferocity similar to the King’s Gambit. Both aggressive and possessive, both angry and strategic. His hair was ruffled, his moustache clipped, his posture slumped.

She thought that maybe he’d slam his door in her face, but he didn’t. He stood there, as still as any chess piece, before he finally decided to strike—

Benny Watts encased Beth in a hug that was three months overdue. She fell into his embrace, arms beginning to shake as she tried desperately to inhale every aspect of him. His smell, his care, his ability to calm her down with the simple sound of his voice or his laughter.

“I’m _sorry_ — I’m so _sorry_ ,” Beth spoke into his shoulder. Benny shook his head once, bringing a hand up to the back of her head. He placed his palm to her head, holding her so tightly that she was afraid she’d never want to be apart from the champion.

“You did what you had to do.” Benny spoke through clenched teeth.

Beth hadn’t called him, nor picked up any of his calls, for over three weeks. She’d gone back on her earlier promise, finally knowing herself wholeheartedly, for the first time in her life, to the point of understanding she’d get hooked on _Benny,_ instead of the pills.

She’d realised, two weeks in, that that reliance hadn’t been about her addictive tendencies—

It was because she _loved_ him.

“I was wrong,” She said, finally pulling away from him. “I shouldn’t have cut you off, I was _stupid_ —,”

“You did what you thought was best,” Benny repeated. “That’s all any of us can do, even with playing the game.” He placed a hand to her cheek, circling his thumb over her soft skin. His lips curled into lopsided smile, dimples popped up on his cheeks.

He’d known her reasons for cutting him off, and he hadn’t faltered his opinion of her. “I missed you.”

“I missed you,” Beth repeated. She stepped back, grabbing something from her bag before turning back to Benny’s expectant stare. She held Borgov’s King in front of Benny’s face, smiling as she gently grabbed his hand, placing the piece in his palm.

Benny curled his fingers around the King, his stare not leaving Beth’s eyes for a second.

“It’s yours. It always has been.” Beth let out. It was the closest she could get to telling him she loved him, without saying those three words.

Just like that, months of hurt, pain, tension and confusion floated away into the New York City air. Beth couldn’t deny that being with Benny in his tiny basement felt as much like home as Lexington did. This was where he’d trained her to the point of beating him, where they’d both realised a mutual attraction that progressed beyond the lines of intelligence and chess moves—

Maybe, it _was_ love.

Beth moved her Queen into play, flushing her lips against Benny’s hastily, like time was still running on her clock. Benny reciprocated with his King, bombarding into her even if it meant he’d be defeated.

Benny Watts happily resigned, giving up every part of himself, every move of the game, for Beth Harmon.

But, just this once, he didn’t mind losing—

Not if it meant feeling the warmth of her lips pressed against his for a few seconds more.


End file.
